CHAPTER XXVIII.
MESSRS. TREDICK & SERVER.
“How sudden do our prospects vary here!”—Shirley.
But Floy’s resolve was destined to be speedily swallowed up in the current of swiftly-coming events.
Only two days later, after some hours spent down town in the fatiguing business of shopping for Araminta Sharp, going from store to store in search of exact matches in dress goods, trimmings, and ribbons, she was standing on a corner waiting for a street-car, when a ragged little newsboy accosted her with:
“I say, miss, won’t you buy one o’ these here papers?” running over the names of several of the dailies; “I hain’t sold none to-day, and if I don’t have better luck Teddy an’ me (that’s my little lame brother) we’ll have to go hungry and sleep in the street.”
“That would be hard. Give me one, I don’t care which,” Floy said hastily, signalling the approaching car.
“Thank ’ee, miss!” said the boy as she dropped the pennies into his hand.
Seated in the car, she scanned the news items, skipping the police reports and the details of “the murder,” read the editorials, then ran her eye down the columns of advertisements.